Inheritance Drabbles
by Valbrandr
Summary: Very short one-takes I wrote in anticipation of the series finale. Will include missing moments from Eragon, Eldest, and Brisingr. Rated T for mentions of torture.
1. A New Day

He dreamed that he reached out towards her, fingers stretching into an endless black void in which she twirled away from him, her hair swirling and her eyes bright. She moved with all the intent and inevitability of fate but also the moderation of wisdom and experience. As she rotated like a dancer away into a pinprick of light, she raised her hands to the heavens - their eyes met, and shards of light and pain blinded him.

Eragon awoke with a start, his heart aching with a dull, hollow beat that made his chest sore. _Arya..._

For the thousandth - no, ten-thousandth - time in his tumultuous life, his thoughts turned towards the raven-haired elf maiden who so troubled his waking dreams. Eragon slumped back against the harsh woolen blankets of his cot and closed his eyes, envisioning her image in his mind's eye as he had done so long ago in Ellesmera when she had broken his fairth...Her essence overwhelmed his every sense. He saw her beauty, her flashing fury and genuine compassion. He heard her lilting laugh, her saddened, ironic chuckle, and the rustle of her clothes over her skin. He felt the vise of her grip on his upper arm and the cool, soft touch of her fingers on his face. He smelled oiled leather and earthy pine. He tasted -

_Are you awake, Little One?_

_Saphira, I-...yes, I have awoken._

_It is well - Nasuada and Orrin are calling the coucil together. From what I overheard, I think they mean to march at the end of this week._

Eragon was shocked.

_So soon!_

It had barely been a week since the battles of Fienster and Gil'ead, and since Eragon and Saphira's masters, Oromis and Glaedr, had been slain by Murtagh and his fell red dragon, Thorn.

_Hurry, Little One. They will be waiting._

Eragon shook his head to banish his waking dreams, and rubbing his hands vigorously over his worn face, swung his legs over the side of his cot.

_Another day._


	2. Confidante

Arya stood stiffly with Orrin by Nasuada's throne as the party whirled around them. Colors, scents, and the sounds of the Varden's motley band seemed to set the air athrum with a single chord of the peoples' joy. Still clad in her armor and ever battle-ready, Arya clenched one hand into the other behind her back, leaning slightly against Nasuada's carved wooden seat. She closed her eyes slowly, consumed with thoughts as her senses numbed to the celebrations around her. Her hearing was muffled, her throat parched, her skin cold and the scents of the night bland against the background of her misery. Her eyes drifted open slightly as Orrin leaned down and shouted something into Nasuada's ear over the din before leaping off her raised dais and joining the throng. The thought of dancing, of being merry at this of all times...nausea swooped low in Arya's abdomen and she reposition her weakening stance. Nasuada, too, Arya noted, looked drawn, and the elf was sure she knew the reason why. To her surprise, the dark-skinned leader of the Varden beckoned to her, chocolate eyes full of concern beyond her own pain.

"Arya...we are friends. You have not looked well for days. Can you not confide in me what troubles you?"

At first, Arya was taken aback.

_Have I slipped so much that those around me can see through my attempts to remain impassive?_

But as she looked at Nasuada's concerned face, Arya knew she had only her own best interests at heart. To have a friend such as Nasuada when she herself felt so out of place, so vulnerable...at least in this regard, the stars smiled on her.

Arya crouched tiredly beside Nasuada's seat so as to better converse.

"If - perhaps if we could go..." she began.

"I know. Certainly," Nasuada replied. She stood quickly and with a glance over her shoulder towards the reveling Varden, led Arya behind one of the fabric panels of her pavilion.

"Now," Nasuada began, "I would know your mind. It is the death of Eragon's masters, isn't it? Eragon himself has seemed to ail."

Arya noted the way Nasuada's eyebrows raised when she mentioned Eragon and attempted to dismiss the insinuation she felt sure was there. "Yes," she began, "they were...they were trusted and dear friends of mine. I find it difficult to confront the notion that I can no longer rely upon their counsel." She felt the troublesome emotions that had plagued her for the past week rise again, threatening to overwhelm her. _And what strong emotions they must be,_ she mused,_ if they can cause me to abandon all decorum the way they did._

_"_Oh, Arya," sighed Nasuada, "I admit to you that sometimes I feel hopeless. The older generation is falling away; I learned when my father died that the time has come when I must rely only upon myself, where before I could place so much trust in others..."

Arya thought she detected bitterness in the young woman's voice. Adopting a gentle tone, she said,

"Trust is not misplaced if it comes from the heart."

Nasuada laughed ironically. "Ah, but what if head and heart betray each other? I can hide naught from you Arya; indeed, you were my only solace in the days following Murtagh's disappearance. Every day since, I have hoped, I have cherished some dream that he might return. Now, I only wish that he really had been slain in the tunnels beneath Farthen Dur."

She looked away, and Arya could see her tightening jaw and the convulsions of her throat. In an even more strained voice, Nasuada admitted, "I entertained notions that I loved him, Arya." She chuckled humorlessly, bright eyes now turned toward the ceiling as they gleamed with tears. "The son of my father's greatest enemy...How foolish I still am, though I try to convince everyone around me otherwise."

Arya leaned tiredly back against the paneled walls of the pavilion and slowly slid down until she sat upon the lush carpeting of the floor. "Nasuada," she said, wearily, but not unkindly, "did I ever tell you of Faolin?"


	3. Crack

_Crack._

A perceptible shiver ran through the air; the fabric of the earth was shifting.

_Crack._

Shards of light rippled, enveloping the surroundings in a crystalline, prismatic green. Flickering glimmers vanished and reappeared on the embroidered paneling of the command tent.

_Crack._

A rush of air, a surprised exclamation. The sound, like the clattering of potsherds, could be heard four tents over. A reverential silence.

_Cheep._

An outstretched hand, a gout of heat. A Shining Palm.


	4. Melancholia

Lying in the cold stone room that night, Eragon allowed thoughts of Arya to overtake him. He knew that she hovered perilously close to death...and that somewhere in the vast city-mountain, the whole of the Varden's magician corps was bent over her thin, lifeless frame, trying frantically to revive her. He had only been able to heal the worst of her wounds - she still remained bruised and battered from whatever horrors she had endured at the hands of the Shade. He could not fathom what such repeated brutality could do to a person - he could not believe that she was still sane. With a jolt, Eragon recalled the cursory exchange between their consciousnesses and the deep, vibrating chords of an ancient sadness...Arya was not only marked physically, but would be forever haunted by her own memories.

He imagined her whip-scarred form chained in the dark cell where he had first dreamed of her, and the baleful gaze of her deep green eyes. He remembered her posture vividly - doubled over with pain, a being of sorrow. What unspeakable things the Shade had done he might never know... He found himself overwhelmed with a deep melancholy that formed tears at the corners of his eyes. As a heavy drop rolled down his cheek, he mourned that such pain could be visited on one so beautiful.

_Little One_. Saphira whispered gently. _Rest now. Once you regain your own strength, we shall go together to inquire after Arya. But for now, sleep..._

Eragon sighed ane rolled over. As he closed his own brown eyes, his consciousness was fixed by a fleeting image of piercing green.


End file.
